


Have You Performed At This Establishment Before?

by helens78



Category: due South
Genre: Boot Worship, Community: duesouth_kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Makeup, One of My Favorites, Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy, Vehicular Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's latest undercover assignment has him playing guitar in a punk band.  He's going crazy, missing Fraser this much, so when a beautiful stranger in lipstick and eyeliner shows up at a gig, Ray can't help looking--but hello; is that a stranger after all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have You Performed At This Establishment Before?

Ray used to divide his life into two sections: BS (Before Stella) and AS (After Stella). Nowadays BF and AF make a lot more sense, because really, the amount to which his life changed between meeting Stella and their marriage falling apart has _nothing_ on the amount of change he's been dealing with because of Benton Fraser, RCMP.

One of the things that's changed is how he feels about going undercover. He's still good at it, still gets called on to do it, but it doesn't make him _like_ it. Spending up to six weeks with only an occasional mail drop or something to let Fraser know how he's doing? It _sucks_.

Sometimes he drives past the Consulate like a stalker, to see if Fraser's out front. Sometimes Fraser _is_ out front, and Ray knows he's not pulling outside duty because he's misbehaving. He wonders if Fraser sees him on those stalkery days. The good news is, unlike Stella, Fraser wouldn't be pissed at him for that--he'd just wish he could say something. Which--yeah. So does Ray.

When Ray's alone in his cheap, dingy excuse for a studio apartment, he has elaborate fantasies of faking some kind of Canadian emergency, something where Fraser's got to break out of that too-stiff posture and come along with Ray, and then when Ray gets him down an alley he tells Fraser the only emergency here is it's been too goddamned long since Ray got fucked.

In his fantasy, Fraser's real agreeable. Of course, Fraser _is_ real agreeable, but in real life, he'd just groan and say _Oh, Ray_ and be back to his post in seconds. In the fantasy, Fraser says, "I believe I can help you with that."

"Oh, yeah?" Ray licks his lips and stretches his arms out to his sides. "Don't see how a nice Mountie like you can help out with something that _naughty_."

"You'll have to trust me on this," Fraser says, backing Ray up against the brick wall. "I can be very... very helpful."

Fraser pins Ray's arms to the wall, kisses him like he wants to fuck Ray's mouth with his tongue, and because it's a fantasy, suddenly Ray's not wearing any pants. What's more, Ray's all slick with lube already, and unlike in real life, where when they tried fucking face-to-face against a wall, Fraser pulled a muscle and Ray twisted his hip and they were both kinda limping that one off for a week, in Ray's fantasy, Fraser just pulls his dick out and pushes _in_.

In his apartment, Ray shoves three fingers into his ass, thinking about it; he works his cock real rough, imagining how fantasy-Fraser could just pin him to the wall with his body weight and have one hand free to work Ray's cock. He tries to get the motions right, tries to touch himself the way Fraser touches him, but his body always knows the difference, no matter how deep he is in the fantasy; it's never the same.

But in the fantasy, Ray's kissing Fraser deep, he's getting fucked so hard it slams his shoulders against the wall, he's out of breath and desperate, and Fraser twists his face to the side, panting out, "Yes, Ray, _yes_ , come for me--"

"--uniform," Ray gasps, trying to hold back as best he can.

"I don't _care_ ," Fraser growls. "Come _right now_ \--"

And Ray does, fantasy-Ray and real-Ray all at once, moaning and panting and feeling the hot slick rush of his come falling over his fingers.

It's not enough. It's not _nearly_ enough. Good _God_ , he misses Fraser.

* * *

Tuesday morning Fraser's out in front of the Consulate, and Ray's fantasizing all over again. He just sits there in his car this time, pretending to read a newspaper, pretending like there's a good reason to be parked across the street from the Canadian Consulate, when all he can really think about is how he'd like to walk across the street, park himself on his knees, and open up Fraser's pants.

Fraser wouldn't have to move, wouldn't even have to do anything. He could just stand there, nice and still, face expressionless, while Ray pulls his cock out and strokes it a few times. Ray's never actually made Fraser do that, never asked Fraser if he _could_ stay expressionless while Ray sucks his cock, but he's betting that here? In public? Fraser would give it the old college (or old Depot, whatever) try.

So Ray would go real slow, real easy, just teasing at first. He'd lick all up and down the length of Fraser's cock, slide his tongue around the foreskin, draw the foreskin back and start sucking the head... oh, fuck, yeah, he'd suck until Fraser started leaking, started filling Ray's mouth with that flavor--hot and salty and clean, something that says Fraser all over to Ray.

If Fraser didn't move through all that, Ray might get the idea he could do some more. He thinks he'd probably whip his own dick out eventually, because if anything's gonna give him a raging hard-on, it's sucking Fraser off. He'd be real slow with himself at first, real gentle, and he'd put his other hand up on Fraser's cock so he could work them both at the same pace. Easy-easy-easy, driving Fraser up the wall, making Fraser just about _die_ he wants to fuck Ray's mouth so bad, but no--he'd do it his way, slow enough to make even Fraser think about begging.

Finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore, he'd start speeding up--his hands moving faster on both their cocks, his mouth slamming down on Fraser's, and maybe he'd hear it--Fraser's breath coming faster and faster, maybe Fraser's nostrils would be flaring, but Fraser would just stand there, still like a statue, holding it all in--until his cock jerked and spurted in Ray's mouth, and Ray swallowed and swallowed but, like usual, couldn't get all of it, and maybe one streak would dribble down the center of his chin.

Ray's so hard in his jeans now that they _hurt_ , but he can't stop looking at Fraser, can't stop thinking about what he'd do if he could do _anything he fucking wanted_.

Because yeah, he'd want to come, and he'd be close, real close, but he's got to take care of Fraser, first, so he'd gently tuck Fraser's cock back into his pants and zip him up again, button him up at the top. But then it'd be _his_ turn, and he'd put one hand down on the ground and work his cock _fast fast fast_ , aiming right at those fucking boots of Fraser's. Fraser would still be standing there, nostrils still flared, breath still heavy, and then that'd be _it_ \--Ray would come hard, come all over Fraser's boot, and if he could, if he could move, he'd hurry up and switch sides, coming on Fraser's other boot, too.

And there he'd be, on the ground, his come all over Fraser's boots--so the only polite thing to do, the only really nice polite thing to do here, would be to slowly, slowly lick up his come, getting those boots slick and polished and clean again.

The clock ticks five, and Ray jerks bolt upright in his car. His knee hits the steering wheel--he's still not used to the smaller dimensions of this piece-of-shit Ford he's driving--and he swears, rubbing at his knee.

In his fantasy, as soon as the clock ticked five, Fraser would reach down, grab Ray by the hair, and growl, "You're going to pay for that later."

In real life, he looks at Fraser, and for a few bittersweet seconds Fraser _meets his eyes_ before turning on his heel and going back into the Consulate.

Fuck. _Fuck._ Ray has to stop this, Ray has to get out of here. He's got a _job_ , for Christ's sake. He can't keep torturing himself like this.

* * *

The one interesting thing about this undercover gig is he's in a band. That's a new one for him; he picked up a guitar when he was in high school, sure, so he knew he'd be able to fake it just fine when he got started. Fraser was even nice enough to give him a few lessons before he went in, too. But after a couple months of this, he's actually getting--well, not good, but not half-bad, either. He likes the music, which helps a lot; the Graveyard Shift plays a pretty decent classic-style punk, and the lead singer, while he might be a pain in the ass and a lot more prone to pushing Ray than Ray might like, is a decent enough guy. Why someone wants to kill him Ray doesn't know--the most Ray would want to do is punch him in the face, which he's been tempted to do a couple of times--but hopefully they'll figure it out soon and he can go the hell home.

Tonight's gig is at a little place just outside Chicago, a bar where everybody's wearing black from head to foot and there's more collars than at a dog park. If the crowd were just a little younger, Ray'd be expecting them to have glow sticks; as it is, he eyes people's faded concert t-shirts and wonders how many of them actually saw the Ramones and how many bought their shirts at thrift shops. It might be a crowd full of poseurs, but at least they seem happy to be here.

He takes the stage, Dylan starts up the first set, and Ray's rocking it, he's got the beat and the rhythm and the look--his own genuine Stooges concert t-shirt and ripped-up blue jeans, his own new-for-the-job narrow little black-rimmed glasses, the orange bandana he's been wearing tied around his right wrist. Dylan's voice is perfect tonight, harsh and loud and dead-on with every single not, so it's a good night--it's going to be a good concert.

And Ray's in the zone, but it doesn't stop him from doing his job. There's a couple plainclothes guys in here, so they'll have the crowd covered out to the corners where Ray can't see, but Ray's got a pretty good view himself. The lights aren't that bright here, so he can see a few feet out into the audience--and as his gaze sweeps over the headbangers, he loses a beat.

No-- _no_ , can't be.

At the end of the song, he steps up front and looks for that face again. He's almost disappointed when he can't find the guy, and then quickly kicks himself for it. What, a guy who vaguely kinda looks like Fraser is good enough these days? Granted, Ray's done nothing but jerk off for more than two _months_ , and Dylan's constant teasing is not helping, but he figured he was more discriminating than _that_.

Two songs later, there's a little movement to his left, just off the side of the stage, and he glances over.

 _Shit_. That guy really _does_ look like Fraser. And he's looking at Ray like he wants to swallow him whole.

And okay, what's the harm here? He's not gonna do anything stupid like go off to some stranger's apartment, he's not going to cheat on Fraser while he's undercover, so is there any harm in playing around a little? He's on _stage_. The guy's on the _floor_. Not even gonna touch, so he can flirt, right?

The next song, Dylan's all over him, kneeling on the floor with his tongue reaching for Ray's--guitar ( _right, guitar, you're humping forward 'cause you're thinking he wants to suck your_ guitar _, Ray thinks_ ), slinging an arm around Ray's shoulders, and Ray plays it up, knowing he's got an audience. Nothing like nuzzling Dylan _back_ to telegraph it to the guy-- _I fuck boys; I'd fuck you_.

He wouldn't. He wouldn't. But he wants the guy _thinking_ that.

He keeps looking over when he has a chance. The guy's tall, broad, black hair spiked through with gel and sticking up at all angles--kind of like Ray's, when he's not in someone else's identity. His eyes are rimmed with really thick black eyeliner, and he's got lipstick on--dark red, not too flashy, just enough to make his lips stand out against his pale skin. He's got a leather collar on, one with an O-ring in the front, leather wristbands with bright silver buckles on both wrists, a leather belt just full of studs and grommets, and he's wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves and neckband ripped out, and tight, _tight_ black jeans, and boots that--

\--holy _shit_. Ray _knows_ those boots.

His body kicks into overdrive, fingers laying out their chords without his mind even being involved, and it's a good thing, because--because holy shit, _holy shit_. Those are the boots that Fraser wears out of the house when he's not on duty, when he's not hiking somewhere. Those are Fraser's casual, everyday black stompers.

So either this guy, who vaguely resembles Fraser, mugged Fraser for his boots--not to mention can wear the things; Fraser's got little, little feet for a guy his size--or else...

Or else that is the _genuine article_ , standing right here, looking at Ray like he wants to eat him alive, wearing _hair gel_ (did he borrow Ray's?) and _makeup_ (where he got that, Ray couldn't tell you) and those _fucking_ clothes, which--Ray doesn't know where they come from, either, but oh shit, all that _leather_. Where the _fuck_ did Fraser get a leather collar?!

More to the point, _please God_ let it not be a rental. Oh _God_.

At the end of the first set, Ray checks his pager--okay, okay, good news here; he's got the all-clear from the plainclothes guys in the crowd. Nobody out here looking to kick Dylan's ass tonight, although when Dylan wraps an arm around Ray's shoulders and, oh shit, sticks his tongue in Ray's ear, Ray wonders if somebody does want to kick Dylan's ass after all, if Fraser's watching _that_.

"Go on, get laid," Dylan says. He gives Ray a squeeze. "C'mon, that guy's been eye-fucking you all night long. Go suck some fucking _cock_."

"I broke a string," Ray says, shoving Dylan away gently so he can get his guitar off. "Gotta restring it for the next set."

"I'll restring your fucking guitar. You go get some."

"I got somebody at home."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt you. Go _on_." Dylan glances back over toward Fraser. "Tell you what. You don't go after him, I will."

Ray shoves his guitar into Dylan's arms and turns away as Dylan cackles. But Ray's already coming off stage, heading over toward Fraser, and Fraser tucks both thumbs into his pockets and rocks back on his heels and _licks his lips_.

"That was a very good set," Fraser says. "Have you performed at this establishment before?"

"I think you mean 'Nice tunes, you come here often?'" Ray says with a grin.

"Ah--well, yes. Sorry." Fraser tilts his head down and looks up at Ray from under his eyelashes--his mascara-coated, curlier-than-usual eyelashes, Jesus _Christ_. "I'm afraid I'm new to the scene--I'm Canadian."

"Oh, I bet you are," Ray murmurs. "My name's Erik," which it is, undercover--Erik Raymond, guitarist from Podunk, Ohio, met Dylan in a jam session, got recruited when Dylan's regular guitarist got to her eighth month of pregnancy and needed a break from the nightclubs. "What's yours?"

"You can call me Ben," Fraser offers.

"I like Ben." Ray smirks. "I got fifteen before I have to be back on stage. You wanna..."

Fraser waits for him to fill in the end of that sentence, raising his eyebrows hopefully. "Yes?"

"There's an alley out back..."

"So there is," Fraser agrees. "I've got a car as well, if you'd prefer that."

Oh. Oh, this is gonna be good. Ray nods at Fraser. "Yeah, I could go for a _ride_ ," he says, and Fraser actually _giggles_ for a second before nodding and leading Ray out.

Ray's not at all surprised to see the Goat there; Fraser parked it well away from the streetlight, so it's more or less private. He hopes the plainclothes guys are keeping an eye on what's inside and not what's outside, because he really does not want to get himself and Fraser busted for indecent exposure, but he isn't going to pass up this opportunity either way. He runs his hand along the sleek lines of the GTO and sighs longingly; he always misses his car when he goes undercover. "Sweet," he says. "How long you had her?"

"Well--" Fraser clears his throat and scratches at his eyebrow. "I suppose I should be honest--she isn't mine."

"Oh?"

"No, I'm afraid she actually belongs to my boyfriend."

"Ahh." Ray nods and leans back against the GTO, looking up at Fraser. "So you probably shouldn't be out with me, huh?"

"And normally I wouldn't be," Fraser says quickly. "But--he's been out of town on business for a while, you understand..."

"Oh, I _do_ understand," Ray says, reaching out and putting a hand on Fraser's hip, his thumb reaching under the hem of Fraser's mangled t-shirt. Where the _fuck_ did Fraser get that collar? Dear God. "You got kinda lonely, huh?"

"Very lonely," Fraser agrees, stepping closer. Ray puts his other hand on Fraser's other hip, and now he's got both thumbs under Fraser's shirt, gently sweeping back and forth across just that one little inch of belly. "I miss him very much."

"Bet he misses you, too," Ray murmurs. "Bet he misses you a _lot_."

"You think so?" Fraser whispers. He reaches up and puts his hands on Ray's shoulders. "I think I'm going crazy, Erik. I keep thinking I see him--on the street, perhaps." He shoves his hips _hard_ against Ray's and growls, "It's been _very distracting_."

"I'm sure he's real sorry," Ray breathes. He squirms against Fraser, cock heavy and hard against Fraser's thigh. "I'm sure he didn't mean to distract you _at all_."

"He'd _better_ be sorry," Fraser says.

He gets close, close enough Ray could almost kiss him, but Ray's suddenly struck with a panicky need to keep this in-character, keep his cover on, so he pushes back a little.

"So why me?"

Fraser sighs and lets his head drop. When he looks back at Ray, his face has lost that hungry, dark, _I'm going to get you for what you did to me outside the Consulate_ look, and he seems to be thinking over Ray's--Erik's--question. "Well--I hope you won't think this is shallow of me, but you... resemble him a bit."

Ray has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. "A bit, huh?"

"Mm. The hair's a little different, and he doesn't wear his glasses every day--although if they looked like these, I'd tell him he _should_." Fraser's eyes narrow, and he licks his lips and comes in closer again. He rubs his groin against Ray's, hard, with more than a little purpose this time. "They're quite flattering."

"Well, thanks," Ray says breathlessly; the way Fraser's pushing up against him, he doesn't know how long he's going to be able to say more than _fuck, yeah_ and _gimme, gimme, gimme_ , so he figures he'd better take advantage of the talking while he's got it. He reaches up and puts a finger through the O-ring on Fraser's collar, because goddamn, that is too much to resist. "I like this. Wish I could get my boyfriend into one of these."

"That might be a difficult thing to talk him into," Fraser murmurs. "It's one thing for a costume, but ultimately he'd rather see it on _you_."

"Is that so?" Ray whispers, and then Fraser's just done talking--he leans in hard and heavy and puts his mouth on Ray's and kisses him, and he's either gotten even toppier since Ray saw him last or Ray's just a lot more inclined to melt, because Fraser pins Ray to the car and rubs up against him, rubs up hard.

"God," Fraser moans. "I want you, I want you _so_ much--"

"Open the fucking car, Ben," Ray pants. "Open the car so you can get me the hell in there and _fuck_ me."

Fraser fumbles his car keys out of his pocket and opens the car door, and they pile inside. Ray's already fumbling with his belt, and Fraser gets his undone, too, unzipping his fly and just pulling out his cock and--"You going commando, Ben?" Ray asks, staring down at Fraser's fly. Oh, fuck, Ray's going to start drooling if the answer's yes.

"It seemed appropriate to the role," Fraser admits. He digs into his pocket for a condom, and he even has one of those one-use lube capsules--where the hell _did_ Fraser go shopping for all this stuff?

"The collar? The cuffs?"

"Did I fit in?" Fraser licks his lips and looks at Ray, and Ray just gapes at him for a minute.

"Did you--you look like a fucking wet dream," Ray says, reaching out and grabbing Fraser by his collar. "I been thinking about your mouth on my cock for the last six songs."

"A tube of lipstick can last quite some time," Fraser says, reaching up and pulling Ray's hand gently off his collar. "If I promise to reapply it when you're home, will you let me fuck you?"

"Uhh," Ray says, and he thinks he should get some credit for sounding as intelligible as he does, with an offer like that on the table. "Uh, _yeah_ \--" And he scrambles to turn over in the seat, hanging half-on and half-off and realizing Fraser had the foresight to move the front seats all the way _up_ for this--Jesus Christ, he really had this all planned out.

The angle's awkward, but Fraser has it all under control. Ray looks back over his shoulder to see Fraser rolling the condom on, then popping the lube capsule open, and--and yes, _yes_ , Fraser's fingers in him, Fraser's fingers twisting inside him, oh _fuck_ , yes. Ray moans and squirms and pushes back, and Fraser's just kind enough or just cruel enough to rake his fingers over that spot, making Ray see stars. "Ray, oh--God, I can't wait, I can't--"

"C'mon, then," Ray says, shoving back against Fraser's hand. "Cmon, Ben. _Fuck me_."

Fraser's panting now, and when he draws his hand back, Ray kind of whimpers, missing that touch like crazy. But then Fraser's coming forward, blunt head of his cock lined up against Ray's hole, and he drives in quick and sharp and brutal, slamming Ray forward against the inside of the car.

" _Yes_ ," Fraser pants, clutching at Ray's hips. "God, Ray, I miss you--"

"I miss you so fuckin' much," Ray moans. "Do it, do it, _harder_ \--c'mon, Ben, harder-harder-harder--"

Fraser doesn't hesitate; he starts going at Ray as hard as he can, hard enough the car shakes. Ray just braces himself and takes it, loving the stretch and the burn, _needing_ them, needing this one rough fuck to make up for two months of no touching and no kissing and no waking up next to Fraser, waking up with Fraser's beautiful warm body curled up all around his.

This is never going to be enough, but if it's all Ray gets, he'll take it.

He doesn't want it to stop, but suddenly Fraser's slamming in just right, taking Ray at an angle that makes Ray squirm and pant. "Ben, please, please--God, I can't, I _can't_ \--"

"I know," Fraser growls. "Come for me."

Game over, that's it, all done--Ray jerks against Fraser's body and comes all over the backseat, arms shaking as he tries to keep himself from collapsing. Fraser gives him one more hard thrust, another, and then he's gripping Ray's hips with all his strength and shoving in good and deep, coming with a low, desperate-sounding growl.

When it's over, Fraser groans as he eases back, and Ray does his best to make room for him. Ray's going to feel that for days; sitting down makes him whimper just a little, but only in the good way.

"I can't take this," Ray murmurs, tilting his head back against the seat. "I want out. I want to come home."

"I miss you, too," Fraser says, reaching over and taking Ray's hand. "I couldn't wait anymore." He sighs. "Your set break's almost up."

" _Fuck_ my set break."

"You can do this." Fraser leans over and kisses Ray's neck. "You don't think I'm going home yet, do you?"

"You should," Ray mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. "I fucking hate saying that, but you _should_."

"I might as well stay for the rest of the concert. A real fan would stay--he'd be hoping to get lucky again."

Ray laughs, but it's not funny, not really. "I miss you so fucking much. I wish you _could_ stay."

Fraser's quiet at that, and Ray sighs as he squirms back into his jeans. He's definitely going to have come-stains on them, but fuck it; it goes fine with his cover. He turns to Fraser, who's done the same; they're both sweaty and stained and messy, and it makes Ray wonder what it would've been like if they'd met under entirely different circumstances. If his name really _was_ Erik. If he really _could_ take Ben home with him--to that shitty hole of a place he's been living for the last two months, yeah, but if Fraser was there, he wouldn't give a damn.

"Wish me luck?"

Fraser slides his arms around Ray's shoulders, and Ray moans out loud as Fraser kisses him. Fraser eases back and rubs his thumb over Ray's lips. "Break a leg," he murmurs.

And that's it; no more stalling. Fraser pushes the front seat forward and opens the door, and he and Ray climb out of the car.

"You could at least buy me a drink," Fraser says, and for Ray it's worse, it's like ripping a band-aid off slow enough you can feel each individual hair tearing loose, but Fraser's right-- _Erik_ could at least buy _Ben_ a drink, so there's no reason not to do it now. They go up to the bar together, and Ray covers his surprise when Fraser orders a highball--"with Canadian whiskey, if you have it," he says, which the bartender does. Ray pays for the drink and heads back to the stage, and Fraser takes up his seat at the table just off to stage left.

Dylan's still fiddling with Ray's guitar when Ray climbs up, and Ray sighs. "One damn string, man."

"Fuck you, one damn string--guitarists and your fucking strings, you got _five_ left, maybe you don't need this one."

"How many did you break trying to restring it?"

"Three," Dylan mutters.

"Oh, lemme guess, you were trying to tune B strings up to E. Nice job." Ray groans at the mess Dylan's left him; he puts his head in his hand for a minute and sighs again. "Gimme a minute."

"Speaking of a minute, how was--" Dylan tilts his head toward Fraser, not too subtly. "You have a good time out there?" He eyes Ray up and down, zeroing in on the stains on Ray's jeans. "'Cause you _look_ like you had a good time..."

"None of your fucking business."

"You got lipstick smeared all over your face." Dylan laughs as Ray rubs the back of his hand across his mouth; Ray hopes Dylan's exaggerating. Fraser looked pretty much fine--but then Fraser always looks fine. "You got any on your dick? I bet he's _real_ good with his mouth."

"Go get your own," Ray mutters.

"Speaking of which, is _your_ own gonna flip his lid when he finds out?" Ray frowns at him, but Dylan just spreads his hands, looking innocent. "Not that I'd tell him. Not that I know who he is. I'm just saying, if I'd known all it was gonna take was a pretty boy in a collar, I could've found you one of those _weeks_ ago."

The E string snaps on Ray's guitar, and he curses, dropping his guitar on the stage and slamming his foot into the nearest monitor. Dylan raises both hands and backs off a step, and Ray stomps around for a couple seconds, trying to get himself under control. _Fuck_ this job, _fuck_ Dylan, _fuck_ being away from home and Fraser, and fuck Fraser, too, for coming back to remind Ray of everything he's missing--

"Pardon me--"

Ray's head snaps up, because that's Fraser, stepping up on stage, reaching out a hand. " _What_?"

"I think I can help with your guitar, if you'd like."

Ray pulls his glasses off and rubs at his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Fine."

Fraser kneels down on the stage and turns Ray's guitar over once in his hands. He digs a pocketknife out of his jeans, quickly disposes of the tight coil of wire still wrapped around the tuning peg, and grabs one of Ray's few remaining spare E strings out of his guitar case. Another flip of the guitar, and he quickly zips the string through the back of Ray's Strat, tugging lightly to make sure it catches; turning the guitar right-side up again, he slips the end of the string through the tuning peg, leaves _precisely_ the right amount of slack wire, and twists the tuning peg until the string's taut, plucking at it and tightening it into tune. He trades the pocketknife for a multi-tool, clips off the end of the string, and hands the guitar over to Ray, who stands there staring down at Fraser, mildly nonplussed.

"Huh," Ray says.

" _Huh_ ," Dylan agrees, grinning down at Fraser and licking his lips. Ray just barely resists the urge to elbow Dylan in the ribs. "You play?"

"No." Fraser glances at Ray. "Well, yes, but my work is typically more behind the scenes."

"You're a roadie?"

Fraser nods, and Ray's just boggling at him, wondering what the _hell_ he's talking about. "I've followed a few Canadian bands in my time, though probably nothing you'd have heard of."

"Y'know, we could use a good roadie." Dylan elbows Ray. "You saw how good my attempt at fixing Erik's guitar went."

"Indeed." Fraser raises an eyebrow at Ray. "It so happens I've got the next four weeks available."

Ray's whole body flushes with heat; he's tempted to grab Fraser by the hair and yell _Why didn't you just fucking tell me, you motherfucker_ , because _Jesus_ , this has probably been Fraser's plan all along. And it would be nice, for once, to be let in on those plans _before_ they happen.

But the way Ray's grinning ear-to-ear would probably give the whole game away even if Ray tried to be a hardass about it, which right now he is not enormously inclined to do. "Four weeks, huh?" he asks. "We got a road trip coming up."

And Fraser just grins back at him. "Well, Erik," he says, licking those dark red, messy lips, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

_-end-_


End file.
